The Darkwolf
by Puck Goodfellow
Summary: A story held in medieval times, with no basic premise besides. A fiction tale that is likely to entertain more adult themes than most of my stories have thus far.


Fields of gold strangled the land, lakes of umber and blood dotting the scape, clearly evidencing the season's unique brilliance across the land. The evening sun lit the waters brighter than ever a kerosene spill could, inflaming the land with a war-like blaze matched only by the sun-lit glinting of the moving armor and camping fires dotting the evening set-up location of an army on the move, settling in for the evening under the canopy's edge of a bloody lake of trees.

The men of this army could easily spot the green glints of the Darkwolves' eyes, waiting for the absolute black that would come with the sun's setting; the unawareness of the soldiers who would die in their sleep, or wake armorless and be returned home, useless in their newfound vulnerability. The horses would be missing, and the caravans stripped and destroyed.

Archers would find their weapons missing, or embedded in their own flesh, waking to scream relentlessly for all of a few seconds before dying. Machines will have been sabotaged and made useless, or faulty, rendered a danger to keep either way, and giving the Darkwolves yet another weapon to use against the armies. The woman-cooks will have either been taken or murdered, perhaps left with unwanted bastards growing inside their bellies from the assault in the dead of night. This raid, and others after it, would succeed, according to the plans of the Darkwolves.

One such raid ran special, a one-man assault on the whole unit.

Darkwolves don't often give half a damn who they're raiding, as long as it's profitable for them in one way or another, and it always is. This makes them both very valuable allies, and very powerful enemies. Until they're paid, they're often true to their word, and will carry out their mission as their 'employer' has requested. However, once paid, or after a deal soured, they can be terribly unpredictable.

Tonight's was one such raid, a special circumstance in which a deal had soured, however the Darkwolf now planning her raid had seen the events. The deal had been completed on the Darkwolf unit's end, but the employer had deigned it unfit to pay his end of the bargain: a small number of women and some coin, something petty. Why, then, had this Darkwolf decided it necessary to perform her task? And why this unit, who had no connection to the man that anyone else could spot. Perhaps some secret the Darkwolf knew especially about this group?

Whatever the reason, she had made her target, and she did little to hide her presence. The shadows hid her grin, in the forest surrounding a good quarter of this army's escape, a cliff coating another half of it, leaving little room for them to freely escape, should the lone Darkwolf prove a threat. She smiled, listening to the men on guard duty as they mocked the sole pair of eyes watching them from the shadows, taking the creature for granted, clearly assuming her just another Darkwolf. She could hear them. Their words only turned her eyes the color of the forest and the setting sun's lakes.

"Lose your pack, little wolf?" called one, jostling his friend good-naturedly, and more than a little drunk.

"Or perhaps you're an outcast? A loner, maybe… Come out and play, we could use a sparring partner, hmm?" Said another of the three guards on patrol in the area. The two taunted and teased from the safety they believed their distance afforded them.

"…" The third was quiet, silently eyeing the Darkwolf in wait, spotting the glint of surety dangling in the sickly green glow of her eyes. "You should not so openly taunt one of theirs. This could perhaps be a scout, or one of their legendary Bers."

"Bah!" Barked the first, turning to grin at the third, so much positive assurance in his pose it sickened the third… As well as the silent watcher. "Darkwolves are little more than a challenge."

"Darkwolves are… You are a fool. You've clearly never seen them working." The darkwolf raised a brow, considering the third for a second, questing her mind for word of survivors. "Taunting any Darkwolf is a fool's folly." He growled, glaring at the first. "If you'd ever seen a Bers rip through a town, you would not so openly flap your gums." He watched the Darkwolf's eyes a moment longer, hoping this Darkwolf would move on.

A Bers is a legend among Darkwolves, more commonly referred to as a Berserker, in common company. A Darkwolf generally has leather armor, and can move faster than most soldiers, hit specific points just right to paralyze the breath or freeze the blood. A Darkwolf Bers wears either several layers of armor or little-to-none at all, on a level of personal preference, or upbringing, or what's available. Bers may go into a rage, but they will always know what they're doing, remember their training and mission, and rip through any challenges met easily.

"Bers is a myth, oldtimer…" the first barked, smugly posing with hands on hips, shimmering silver armor on rise with his muscles. "You believe in storys and legends that have no place in today's ranks." He growled, challenging the old man as he reached for his own sword. A stifled cry behind him made him whirl, a suddenly-placed dagger drawn cross his neck by his own force as he did, spraying blood on his assailant as he fell to the ground, not a cry of his own to utter, with his throat filled of blood.

The oldtimer stared on, seeing under the hood of the Darkwolf, and noting the obvious displacement of the cloth where animalistic ears and tail rested. A grin slowly came to lace his lips, as he looked the slender little creature before him up and down, finding himself inexplicably drawn to the thing he now stared at by some force he could… no, would not name. His hand began for his blade, and stopped at the hilt. He had looked down to ensure his hand's aim, only for a millisecond, and when again he looked up, she had disappeared.

His own ears perked, and his stance grew more serious. He froze, as he felt the tip of a dagger bleed from his gut, glancing down at the creature now crouched there, smirking up at him victoriously. She had hardly moved, and beaten down three guards. "You make this too easy, old man… You AND your friends." She cooed.

His eyes widened, as though he'd seen a ghost, as he stared down at here, daring not move, for fear of the blade prodding at his belly. "And you move far too fast for an old man's eyes to keep up with." He jostled back, openly expecting his life to end in a brief time. For he himself could recall only one episode where any had survived a Darkwolf's attack… When he was young, and took up a wooden practice sword to face down a boy of his own age, wielding a serated knife. He'd no idea how he'd survived. He'd woken in a farmhouse a while away, his village burnt, family murdered, and head bandaged, in a stable, bedded down with a warhorse.

"You've a wise tongue. One might almost think you'd been through one of mine before, hmm?" She pushed the knife a bit further into his gut warningly. If he didn't move, she would, and he would not survive.

Instinctively, his hand bit down on his hilt, before he slowly removed it and stood, backing away with his hands clearly visible. "And perhaps I have. But, Pray tell, how would you be one to assume?"

She grinned coyly, standing up lazily and seeming to dance in place. Her movements were lithe, and awoke a fire in the old man he hadn't felt long since. "Pray tell," she quoted teasingly, "how would you be one to question?" She still held her knife, and now sniffed it's tip, looking lazily over her shoulder at the two fallen, who's blood she now wore dotted on her face, under the brown hood. She teased him. He had played this game before, but he did not now think he would win it.

"You've a good point. But would you mind my asking, ARE you a Bers, and is there any chance any of mine may survive?"

She grinned and danced around him curiously, dragging her dagger over his armor to put him on edge. It took less than that to make him nervous. "Hmm… I'd doubt it." She coyly avoided answering anything directly, grinning all the while. She perched herself up by his ear from behind, pressing the tip again through a weakness in his armor. "I would… Highly doubt it." She purred, noting the light shiver he gave and recognizing it. She had seen it many times, though she care not remember where or why. "Few play with their 'food', as I enjoy doing… And few 'meals' do I actually enjoy chasing, but you sound fun." She purred, hearing him gulp as she finished, dancing around in front of him again, her clothes catching lightly in the wind to sway gently as the leaves would flutter, or gossamer curtains would waver in a breeze.

He remained quiet, listening curiously as she sheathed the blade. After a moment's thought, she spoke again. "I haven't had any fun in a while, everyone kills themselves, I just provide the tools…" she cooed, watching him squirm in his way. She looked around a moment and lifted two spears from the ground nearby: Dropped by the younger members who'd seen fit to tease her. "A spar sounds like fun, hmm? I'll admit, my skills with staves and spears is less than adequate… I suppose it may give you an edge." She tossed the older man a spear and dropped her cloak, revealing the slender trim of her build clearly under the light leather she wore for armor. No helm coated her rodent-like ears, no tailguards, and no gloves. Bracers and boots were the extent of her limb protection, and few scars were visible on the flesh beneath.

The man caught the spear, staring in awe a moment at her figure, now daring name his attraction. But few things were startling him at the moment, as stunned as he was. It certainly appeared he may survive after all, perhaps even best her. Spears had been a fair topic for him in training, Staves better. He smiled as he watched her, wielding her weapon in a way that clearly evidenced her lack of total expertise. "Have we any wager upon which to go?" After a long moment's thought, she smiled, letting the words slip from her maw.

"We'll see…" He could harsh believe it. A challenge with a handicap from, and for, a Darkwolf, much less surviving this long where he otherwise would have fallen much sooner…

"I must have done something you liked…" He purred, grinning as she returned it, and the fight commenced. It proceeded for perhaps an hour, perhaps two, perhaps longer. The sun had finally set, the area was dark, but not unoccupied. Fingers of both parties were bruised or bleeding, and both entertained cuts from the wrong end of the other's staff, until finally…

A bowstring twanged, and the mouse backflipped, letting go her spear to the ground as she slid to a stop, glaring at the interloper into her battle. Her face quickly drew solemn as she looked around, surrounded by other members of the soldier's guard. How long had they been there? Minutes? Hours? She had no concept of time, as she'd been wrapped in the fight. He hadn't either, and stared at the bolt lodged in his spear. Had the bolt landed just a few inches east, he would no longer be breathing.

She looked around, clearly detecting no safe escape, and drew her dagger defensively, though she was tired and panting, worn and pained from the battle. Finally, she stood tall, threw back her head, and gave a bloodcurdling howl, forcing the soldiers into a mild cringe. Most could scarce fathom a mouse of her size delivering such a sound, and few had to endure it long, as one of the larger soldiers pounded through the ranks while she howled, unseen by the Darkwolf, and drew back his club, silencing the cry with the dull thud of the small body against the ground at the older soldier's feet.

The world would be dark for the Darkwolf, and the old soldier would be placed in charge of her keeping.


End file.
